


One Good Thing

by wanderingbeauty



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 10:32:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14186973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderingbeauty/pseuds/wanderingbeauty
Summary: "I want to believe I'm a good person.One good thing. I want to doonegood thing for someone today. But I'm running out of time -- my clock says 4:36pm.It's probably a bit fast."





	One Good Thing

Okay, so today was sort of shitty. 

Well, it was really shitty, actually. So much for everything changing this year. 

But I still owe it to myself to try, right? Isn't there some bullshit saying about how if you're actively looking for reasons to not give up, you were never gonna give up in the first place? 

I want to believe I'm a good person.

One good thing. I want to do _one_ good thing for someone today. But I'm running out of time -- my clock says 4:36pm. 

It's probably a bit fast.

I turn left and see a speck of blue amidst the wet, green scenery. Evan Hansen is walking home in the rain. It's not good for casts to get wet, right? And he doesn't even have a jacket. 

Maybe this could be my one good thing.

I pull over next to him and call his name. He looks at me. "Um, are you... are you talking to me?"

"We established in the computer lab that your name is Evan Hansen, right?" He keeps looking at me, his face blank. I roll my eyes. "Are you just gonna stand there in the rain like a fucking idiot or are you gonna let me drive you home?" Wow. I'm an asshole.

Still, after a little hesitation he opens the passenger door and gets in beside me. "Um, thank you."

I turn the vent toward him. "For your cast. I think there are some napkins in the glove box if you wanna look."

"Oh, no. This is... this is fine. Thanks." He puts his arm up to the vent. I turn it up a little.

"I'm sorry I pushed you," I blurt out. "And I'm sorry I..." I run a hand through my hair. It's been awhile since I apologized to anyone on my own volition. "I'm sorry I suck. I just... I'm dealing with a lot right now. I don't really know how to..." I stop at a redlight and flick the switch next to me to make the wipers go faster. "I'm not good at human interaction, is what I'm trying to say."

"It's okay. I'm not either." 

"I know." 

He laughs awkwardly.

We drive for a little bit in silence. The rain is unrelenting and I can barely see three feet in front of me.

He mumbles something. 

"What?"

"Oh, I said, uh... I said I like your nails."

"They're fucked up. I need to re-do them."

"Do you... do you want me to... um...."

"Look, Hansen," I hit a pothole head-on. "Don't take this as an invitation for us to be friends, alright? I saw you walking home in the rain and felt bad for you. I'm just trying to be nice." 

He clears his throat. "Turn left here. Third house down." I park in front of his house and he opens the door immediately. "Um, thanks, Connor. I'll, uh... I'll see you tomorrow, I guess?"

"Yep. Don't forget your bag." 

"Oh! Sorry!" He bends down and slings it over his shoulder. "Um, bye." He shuts the door a bit too carefully.

I watch him walk up the driveway and make it inside before I drive off.

***

I take my notebook out of my bag and open to a blank page. 

I'm sitting at my desk in my room. The rain stopped and the birds are all chirping at once outside. It's still cloudy. My blinds are drawn.

I tap my pen against the page. How do I want to start this? Should I begin with an anecdote? _Ever since I was a little kid, I always knew..._ No. That's no good. I scribble it out. Should I open with a question? That's a sure way to grab an audience, right? _What would you do if you knew..._ Forget it. I scribble it out.

I think back on all the years of English class. Avoid trite, overused similies, like _this pressure in my chest like a ton of bricks_ or _all these thoughts running around my brain like a chicken with its head cut off_ or... his note, neatly folded up and _burning a hole in my pocket._

I take it out, unfold it.

_Dear Evan Hansen,_  
_Turns out this wasn’t an amazing day after all. This isn’t going to be an amazing week or an amazing year. Because why would it be?_  
_I know, because there’s Zoe, and all my hope is pinned on Zoe, who I don’t even know and doesn’t know me. Maybe if I could just talk to her... Maybe nothing would be different at all. I wish everything was different._  
_I wish I was part of something. I wish that anything I said mattered to anyone. I mean, face it -- would anyone notice if I just disappeared tomorrow?_  
_Sincerely,_  
_Your most best and dearest friend,_  
_Me_

I put it in my notebook, stare at it as if it were my own creation. My head goes in my hands and I read it. Over and over and over again.

_I wish everything was different. I wish I was part of something._

Fuck.

I take out my phone and download the Facebook app. Turns out I already had it installed. Who knew? I open it and search for Evan.

His page is private. All I can see is his profile picture. 

_To see Evan's posts, send him a friend request._

I clutch my phone tightly. What the hell do I do? I told him I didn't wanna be friends, so if I send him a request he'll think I'm a fucking weirdo.

Then again, he probably already thinks I'm a fucking weirdo. Especially since he's friends with Kleinman. 

I look at his letter again.

_This isn't going to be an amazing week or an amazing year. Because why would it be?_

Who knows the last time he even checked his page? If he's as socially fucked up as I am -- doubtful, but I'm talking about a worst-case scenario here -- there's no reason for him to be checking it every day. My friend request could be sitting in his inbox for months. Unseen.

_Would anyone notice if I just disappeared tomorrow?_

I throw my phone behind me and it thunks against the wall before landing on the bed. I'm tempted to throw the note in the trash, but for whatever reason I re-fold it and stick it back in my pocket.

Okay. Focus. _Focus._

No questions. No anecdotes. No trite similies or other cliches. What the fuck is left?

_Dear Connor Murphy,_  
_Today was sort of shitty._  
_Well, it was really shitty, actually._

What am I doing, writing a goddamn journal entry? This isn't gonna grab anyone's attention. It's not even clever.

I hear the front door open. Cynthia's home. "Connor?"

Fuck. "I'm up here, Mom. I'm doing some homework."

"I'm proud of you, honey," she calls up. "Do you want me to make you a snack?"

I fight the urge to rip my hair out of my head. "Okay, sounds good."

I look back at the monstrosity I've written and decide that I can't do this right now. I rip it out of the notebook and throw it in the trash. 

This year isn't gonna be easy if I can't even get a fucking coherent sentence on paper. 

Maybe I could just _talk_ to Evan.

Maybe that could be my one good thing for tomorrow.


End file.
